


Eca

by Inksinger



Series: A, I Theilin In Edhil Teiliar… [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Inspired By Tumblr, Inspired by Art, Post-War of the Ring, Valinor reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 10:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4175859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inksinger/pseuds/Inksinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Maeglin finally earns the privilege of being reembodied... just in time to realize it may not be much of a privilege after all.</p><p>Another piece inspired by art by the incredibly talented tumblr artist givenclarity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eca

It had been thousands of years since Maeglin had last seen the world outside of Mandos. The dwelling place of Námo was nothing as grim as he might have imagined it in those final, blurry moments before his death... but these were still the Halls of Mandos, and death was still death.

His reembodiment had taken longer than most others'. He had watched those who had lived worthier lives and made more altruistic choices than his own pass from the Halls not long after they had arrived, while he had been made to linger with those few others whose names, like his own, had been imprinted upon the histories of their people as figures of villainy.

Amrod was released near the end of the Third Age. Maeglin was made to continue waiting.

Eventually there came a day when no more new fëar came to dwell in Mandos—when those who remained were either unwilling or disallowed to be reborn. From the tapestries hung throughout the Halls, Maeglin knew the Elves had returned to Aman; this was likely the reason there had been no more deaths. There were now no more wars to fight, no more enemies to battle save the shadows in their own histories... and those whose shadows might have slain them once had already known healing.

Maeglin still was not let free. Neither were most of those who had remained with him, save one: Maglor was released almost immediately upon the return of the Exiles. The rest were made to continue their endless waiting.

For the first time since his death in the First Age, Maeglin rebelled against his fate. He had spent enough time in Mandos to recognize his crimes and shortcomings for what they had been, was wise enough now to understand the depth of suffering he had caused. He knew he deserved his long, long sentence—but the others had all been released and returned to their loved ones. Maeglin was not his father, nor Fëanor, nor his half-cousins; what hurts and damages he had brought about had ultimately been far fewer and lesser than theirs, and must surely be mended by now.

Why must he remain?

He still had no answer to that question when his turn finally came, not long after Maedhros' release. The joy that came of _finally_ being able to return to physical form was tainted with bitterness, and when he stood again before Námo, that bitterness poured forth unabated.

" _Why?_ " he demanded. "What have I failed to learn? What have I failed to lament?"

Námo looked at him in silence, and his gaze seemed even more piercing, even more enigmatic than usual. That was seldom a good thing, in Maeglin's experience.

"Say not that you have failed to learn," Námo finally said. His voice shivered through the air, the barest hint of a whisper, and it still chilled Maeglin to hear. "Say instead that others may have failed to let go."

That was all the Vala would say. It was enough; now Maeglin found his joy was tainted instead with trepidation.

But his decision had already been made for many years. Maeglin left the Halls and awakened to find himself clothed once more within a hröa. Better, his mother was there when he awoke, smiling down at him and looking happier and more radiant than he had ever seen her in his life before.

It was good to be alive again.

 

He spent many of his first days wandering the woods of Aman, where he learned again the feel of the breeze through his hair and the softness of grass beneath his unclothed feet. He had no reason and less desire to wander into any city just yet; he was content simply to be able to see and experience everything once again.

Within a few hours of his first day, he had discovered the little brook that wandered by not far from the house he shared with Aredhel. In the weeks that followed, he retreated to this brook whenever he became overwhelmed with all that was around him. Trailing his hand in the water and watching the play of light and shadow across his skin still possessed the power to soothe and calm him.

It was a relief to know that the best parts of him had survived all that he had done and been through.

Eventually the day came when Maeglin chose to follow the brook and see where its waters flowed. As he went he leapt periodically from the bank to the little islands of rock that dotted the water—but he was always careful not to truly tread into the current, languid though it was.

The brook came to an end at the edge of a small drop, and here trickled down the rocks in a little fall before finally joining with the little pond at the base of the drop. Little fish glittered gold and silver beneath the surface of the water.

The pond lay at the edge of a small clearing in the trees, hardly more than a dozen yards or so across in any direction. A few clusters of small yellow flowers bloomed here and there, swaying gently as the breeze touched them.

The area had a feeling of security, of secrecy, as though few ventured here and fewer still lingered for very long. A childlike curiosity came to life in him, and Maeglin picked his way carefully down the steep slope, careful to avoid the water-slicked rocks to his left—

Someone cracked their knuckles.

His foot completely missed the little shelf of turf he'd been aiming for, and Maeglin was forced to half-slide, half-scramble the rest of the way down to avoid falling outright. Only once he was back on solid footing did he look around to see who else was here.

...There. Someone sat against the trunk of a young tree not far from where Maeglin stood, apparently engrossed in the little book he held open in one hand.

He had golden hair—a _lot_ of golden hair.

"Good afternoon, Maeglin." Glorfindel didn't look up from his book. Neither did he smile, for all his tone sounded friendly enough. Maeglin wasn't quite stupid enough to believe that was due to whatever the older Elf was reading.

"Hello... Glorfindel." Maeglin's voice only broke once—quite the achievement, he thought.

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them, long enough that Maeglin wondered if Glorfindel really was more interested in his book. That being the case, maybe now was an opportune time to escape—

"Going so soon?" Glorfindel asked as Maeglin started to back away. He finally looked up as he added, "It's been a long time, hasn't it? I'm surprised you haven't ventured out into the cities yet. You were always such a social butterfly before."

The Balrog-Slayer smiled, but the expression didn't reach his steely gray eyes. His little book snapped shut with a flick of his hand.

"But then, being newly reincarnated must be a rather overwhelming experience." Glorfindel gently laid his book aside, then rose to his feet in one fluid motion. "I can sympathize with that. It was a trying time for me, as well."

Belatedly it occurred to Maeglin that the one great disadvantage to being alive again was that he could now be killed _again._ And that was likely the best he could hope for at the moment.

On one hand, Glorfindel wasn't generally the sort to relish in causing untoward amounts of suffering... or hadn't been, when Gondolin still stood. On the other, none of the enemies Glorfindel had encountered before had had the misfortune of being traitors directly responsible for the destruction of their own people.

The former Lord of the House of the Golden Flower stepped lightly, his feet barely leaving any marks in the long grass as he made his way over to Maeglin. If he noticed Maeglin slide one foot back in response, he gave no indication.

"They say you fell to your death," Glorfindel commented. "What a coincidence! _So did I_."

Yes, death was definitely beginning to seem more and more preferable. Death did not come with the promise of severe bodily injury that gleamed in Glorfindel's eye

"I... am sorry for the part I played," Maeglin managed to choke out. He most certainly _did not_ squeak. Certainly not. "For what I... brought about. All of it."

One golden eyebrow went up at roughly the same time Maeglin's stomach sank into his feet.

"You certainly seem to think so." Glorfindel's smile took on an unpleasant edge. "I'm not so sure. You seem to have completely put it behind you."

"I have had a... a great deal of time to think about... what I did." Fine, perhaps his voice did squeak just a bit. He was staring down a very, very calm Balrog-Slayer. Anyone's voice would squeak. "I know it was wrong. I knew it then. It was... utterly unforgivable. I—"

"Very observant, as always." Glorfindel wasn't smiling anymore. He was still baring his teeth, mind, but he was most certainly not smiling anymore.

Maeglin's back hit the wall of the little cliff. When had he started backing up?

"Tell me, Maeglin the Mole," Glorfindel said. "Which was worse for you? The torture, or the lovely drop from the walls of my city?"

"Lord Glorfindel—"

"It couldn't have been the landing," Glorfindel continued as though he hadn't heard Maeglin speak up. "You fell straight down, after all. You had the luxury of dying immediately upon impact—or at the very least, of being knocked blissfully unconscious."

"I—" Fine. Fine! Maeglin was squeaking quite a great deal. At least he wasn't screaming yet.

"I didn't have that luxury." Glorfindel's voice dropped to a low, rumbling growl. Any semblance of a smile fled his features, replaced by a murderous snarl. "I was dragged down the side of a snow-covered mountain. After being burned and cut by an incredibly antisocial Balrog. And before that, I had to watch the city crumble around me while my soldiers and I rounded up what survivors we could."

Already looming over the smaller Elf, Glorfindel brought himself nose-to-nose with Maeglin and wrinkled his nose as though the other smelled utterly revolting. "Children died there, Maeglin, and I had to order their parents and siblings to leave them."

"I— I'm sor—"

"Not that you care about that, I'm sure." Glorfindel's hand shot out against the cliff beside him, halting Maeglin's sideways slide. "You were busy trying to throw Eärendil from the walls, after all. Remind me, if you would: How old was he at the time?"

"...Seven, I believe." Perhaps if Maeglin only spoke when asked to, Glorfindel would make his second death relatively quick and painless.

"Quite right. Seven years old." Maeglin didn't dare look to see whether or not he had actually just heard rocks break under Glorfindel's hand. "I can't imagine what possible threat the boy posed to you. Perhaps you can enlighten me?"

Maeglin opened his mouth, but all that came out was a strangled squeak.

"I thought as much." Glorfindel grinned at him... so to speak. "It's very fortunate for everyone involved that Tuor intervened when he did."

Maeglin nodded mutely.

"I see you're out of silver words," Glorfindel commented. "Tell me, then, Maeglin son of Eöl: Why in all of Arda did you come back?"

Because he wanted to. Because he thought he was ready to. Because he missed his mother. Because he missed the feel of water upon his skin, of wind in his hair, of grass beneath his feet.

Just as all the others had.

Glorfindel stared at him for a moment, and then pulled back sharply.

Maeglin flinched, waiting for the blow to land. When it did... it was a hard slap on his shoulder, hard enough that he would have fallen to his knees if Glorfindel hadn't kept an uncomfortably tight grip on him.

"Go home, Maeglin."

The hand was removed; when Maeglin finally gathered up the courage to look up again, Glorfindel had returned to the little tree and was picking up his book.

Maeglin fled.


End file.
